Thus ends the Whore of Akron's quest for a ring: with a ring. I fully expected him to win it last year, and was glad when he didn't and gladder to see him choke while trying. His failure then was epic, but no more so than his triumph now. I don't have to like or respect a man to acknowledge his talent and accomplishment. Way to go, shit-heel.

Times are always tough for Cleveland fans. The thieving bastard Art Modell won a Super Bowl after absconding with the Browns to Baltimore, and now we've seen The Decision rewarded with an NBA Championship. Neither event hurt as much as any one of the combined 30-year series of hideous season-ending playoff defeats suffered by the Indians, Cavs, and Browns, and I have no doubt that if any of those teams won a championship, Art Modell and LeBron James would be reduced to little more than footnote status.

I often console myself by thinking pretty thoughts about how sweet a victory parade would feel after so many years, but find far more satisfaction in family, friendship, and work, not because I think that sports fandom is but a trivial thing — no way, no how — but because a Cleveland fan knows the taste of hope is only an appetizer for despair. The Cleveland die-hard knows that the only escape offered by his teams is into an alternative reality more grim and bitter than reality.

It may seem odd, but I don't feel grim or bitter about LeBron's ring. He won that thing. I do feel sad. I still believe that the Cavs would've won at least one title had he stayed, and one title in Cleveland would have cemented his legacy — not merely in the place where he was born and came of age, but everywhere he still inspires heartfelt contempt. He won that, too — earned every measure of derision — and no ring will ever make it go away.